Burn Out Bright
by crescendohh
Summary: Speed: 'Wind whips through his hair, howls in his ears. A gleam of shining metal and leather. Endless stretches of pavement behind him. Infinity before him.' A series of oneshots.
1. Coming Home

**Disclaimer: **This should be obvious, but I do not own Harry Potter or any of it's affiliated people, places, things, etc.

**Notes:** So, this is going to be a collection on oneshots all focused on the character Sirius Black. It will hopefully be a good writing exercise/character study. And Sirius is certainly an interesting character... Please read and review!

_..._

**001. Coming Home  
**_(or Warm and Welcome)_

_..._

Sirius had never known what it was like to feel at home until he was eleven years old.

Sure, he had the house where he and his parents and brother lived. But Sirius had never thought of _that_ as 'home.'

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was just too dark and cold and intimidating and _scary _to ever be a home. He couldn't turn a corner without catching sight of the glittering, jeweled eye of some sculpted creature or the utterly unnerving severed head of a House Elf.

(_He would never forget the day that Kreacher's predecessor died. He shuddered whenever he thought about his father with his wand held high over the shaking mess of a House Elf who had so loyally served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the words of the severing charm spilling from his lips.)_

Home was supposed to be warm and open. Home was where he could feel safe, where he could feel welcome and wanted. He never felt any of those things at Grimmauld Place.

The only part of the house that he felt even remotely attached to was the landing which led to his and his brother's rooms. There, at least, he could get away from the horrors that plagued his every step, from the critical, judgmental eyes of his mother and father. His room was his fortress. There (and when he occasionally wandered across the landing to visit Regulus' room - with his express permission, of course) he could start to be himself.

But as much as he thought of his room as his fortress, he sometimes felt that he had been locked in an impossibly tall tower, serving a self-imposed eleven year sentence.

On the first day of September in the year of 1971, he broke out of his prison. He was free. And upon arriving at his destination - at _Hogwarts_ - he felt for the first time in his life like he was coming home.

For the first time in his life, he felt as if he belonged. He talked and joked and laughed with his friends. He caused mischief and mayhem. He ran through the castle corridors as if he owned them. (And it was _his_ home, after all.)

Gryffindor Tower: yet another tall tower, but this time not one in which he felt trapped. It was everything he had ever imagined home to be.

The Common Room was always illuminated by the warm, orange glow of a roaring fire. The air was usually thick with conversation between familiar voices. In the Common Room, Sirius was surrounded by people who truly cared for him. There was always a comfortable chair to sit in and a warm smile to greet him.

His favorite spot in the Common Room was the squashy armchair just to the left of the fireplace. It was always nice and warm (whether someone had been previously sitting in it or not), and in it, he could easily see all the goings on within the room. During his first few years at Hogwarts, his chair - because it _was_ his - was very rarely left vacant, though he sat in it every chance he got. By the time of his fourth year, however, he had very well established it as his own. Whenever he entered the Common Room, if there happened to be a backside occupying the chair - _his chair_ - it quickly removed itself and found a different, _unclaimed_ chair.

Sirius felt no safer than in the comfort of his dormitory. He was no longer alone. (Though he had always had his brother back at Grimmauld Place, it just wasn't quite the same.) He had three best friends who were always there for him, who always put up with him even when he didn't deserve it. Whenever he had difficulty sleeping, all he had to do was listen to the steady, comforting breathing of the three other boys. In the years after Hogwarts, he often had trouble sleeping without it.

Seven years went by quickly - much too quickly. Soon, he was out on his own. He had a new house - his very own flat. But it wasn't home. The people for whom he cared weren't there with him. Remus and Peter and James and Lily (and, after July of 1981, Harry) weren't there.

And they weren't there with him in Azkaban, either.

After another twelve years locked in a fortress, he was able to break free once more. He was able to return home. But his visits weren't for pleasure, and Hogwarts didn't feel the same as it did when he was a student - he blamed it on the Dementors.

For two years he was constantly moving, constantly watching his back, and then...he found himself back in the place of his childhood nightmares, back in his very first prison.

Even with the Weasleys and Remus and Harry, Grimmauld Place was no better than it had been when he and his parents and his brother had all lived there together.

And as he saw the green light from his cousin's wand racing toward him, he knew he couldn't dodge it. It was too late. He regretted (_like oh so many other things in his life_) that he was leaving Harry behind when he knew the boy didn't have much else. He regretted leaving Remus behind _again_ when he knew the man didn't have _anything_ else.

But he couldn't help but think to himself that maybe, just maybe, he would finally be coming home again.

So he fell through the veil - he fell into death - with a smile on his face, the ghost of his last laugh marring his features.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself sitting in his favorite armchair in the Gryffindor Common Room, just as warm and comfortable as he remembered it. He could hear the fire crackling behind him and feel its warmth, but he didn't look back at it. Something much more wonderful, much more amazing - something that, had he been standing, would have made him crash to his knees on the floor - had caught his eye.

He saw everyone. Everyone for whom he had ever cared and who had died before him. And they weren't just his fellow Gryffindors. It was everyone: people of all ages and Houses.

His eyes scanned over long dead Order members, classmates, his Uncle Alphard... His gaze lingered on someone that he hadn't expected to be there. Regulus. His brother. His lips quirked up into a small smile as he realized that his brother had managed to make his way home, too.

He looked out over the rest of the sea of familiar faces slowly, taking them all in, because he knew who would be there to greet him at end of the group. He briefly closed his eyes in anticipation. And when he opened them again, he was staring into the eyes of the two people he had dreamed of seeing again for half his life.

James and Lily, hazel and green, were staring back at him. Their smiles were warm and welcoming (_just like the Common Room, just like Hogwarts_).

And for the very last time, Sirius Black felt what it was like to be home.

_..._

**Notes²: **I apologize for including so many notes in this, but I just want to make one thing clear here at the end. So this last little bit where Sirius sees all his dead friends and family is supposed to be reminiscent of one of the last scenes of the movie _Titanic_ where, after dying, Rose walks back into the grand foyer and is greeted by all the people who had sunk with the ship. It's cheesy, I know, but the good kind of cheese.


	2. Mercy

**Notes:** The second installment. Please read and review!

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**002. Mercy  
**_(or A Lifetime and Again)_

_..._

"_Forgive me, Remus," said Black._

"_Not at all, Padfoot, old friend," said Lupin, who was now rolling up his sleeves. "And will you, in turn, forgive me for believing _you_ were the spy?"_

"_Of course," said Black, and the ghost of a grin flitted across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his sleeves. "Shall we kill him together?"_

"_Yes, I think so," said Lupin grimly._

_ - __**Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban**__, p. 373 (American edition)_

_..._

The time had come at last.

He'd been waiting, sitting in his cell in Azkaban, dreaming of this moment for twelve years.

His anger didn't stem from spending a third of his life in a prison cell, but from not having killed this cringing bit of filth the first time. He would have gladly spent a lifetime and again in Azkaban if it meant Lily and James' betrayer never took another breath.

This coward, this traitor, this scum was the reason his best friend - the only person who'd ever understood him, who'd ever loved him - was dead.

James had taken him in without question when he had turned up on the Potters' doorstep in the middle of the night. James had given him a home, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was like to truly belong, to be a part of a _real_ family, not the pathetic façade of a family that had disowned him.

James had loved him like a brother, and he had returned that love. He had loved James more than anyone or anything else.

But that was all gone now. James was gone. Everything was gone.

Now, every time he closed his eyes, the image of James' lifeless body amidst a pile of rubble was branded onto his eyelids; it was like a scar that would never fade, worse than a thousand nightmares.

And it was all because of Peter Pettigrew, all because this rat had chosen to save his own worthless life rather than protect the three people for whom Sirius cared most.

Well, the time had finally come for Peter to pay for his betrayal. The traitor wouldn't escape this time. Sirius was looking forward to seeing the light leave his eyes.

"Shall we kill him together?"

"Yes, I think so."

Now, Remus was going to help him. It was only fitting. Peter had destroyed his life, too, after all. For the past twelve years, Remus had been alone in a world which despised him for the very thing he was, for something over which he had absolutely no control.

Peter had condemned them both to this fate.

Yes, it was only fitting that they would be doing this together.

The coward had turned to Harry's friends now, begging them, pleading for them to spare his pathetic life. He would get no such thing. Sirius would make sure of it.

And then he turned to Harry.

How dare he? _How dare he talk to Harry?_

After everything he'd done, after selling out Harry's whole family, how dare he expect mercy?

The piece of filth cringing before him had taken everything from him, and now it was time for Sirius to take away the very thing that Peter regarded as more precious than anything else: his life.

It was only fair.

"NO!"

He was shocked, appalled, disgusted. Why had Harry stopped him? This scum was the reason they were dead. Why couldn't Harry see?

James was dead. Gone. He would never laugh again, never escape Death Eaters on Sirius' motorbike, never say something stupid, never show off for Lily, never play with Harry. No, instead he was rotting six feet under ground now, just as Sirius had rotted in Azkaban.

Didn't Harry understand? He needed this, needed it more than anything. He needed to do to Peter what Peter had done to him. He needed to destroy the thing Peter loved most.

That wretched piece of filth was thanking Harry now, thanking him for sparing his sorry life. He didn't deserve mercy.

"I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because - I don't reckon my dad would've wanted them to become killers - just for you."

Harry was right. James wouldn't, he knew.

James had always stopped him from doing something stupid, from doing something terrible, unforgivable. And now, here Harry was in his stead.

James had stopped him from killing Snape, the greasy bastard. Snape had deserved it, but James had always stopped Sirius when he'd gone too far and that time, he'd gone much too far. James had stopped Sirius from becoming a murderer at sixteen.

Peter was even more deserving of death than Snape. Yet, here was Harry, stopping him from becoming a murderer at thirty-four. Everyone else in the world already thought he was, but here was Harry, still thinking of him, saving him from himself. Just like James.

He wouldn't kill Peter Pettigrew. He wouldn't because James' son had told him not to.


	3. Speed

**Notes:** A little bit of experimenting with the use of present tense. Also, points to anyone who can guess where I got the shooting star quote from. (It's a very vague reference...) Please read and review!

_..._

**003. Speed  
**_(or Shooting Star)_

_..._

Wind whips through his hair, howls in his ears. A gleam of shining metal and leather. Endless stretches of pavement behind him. Infinity before him.

Faster, faster.

He has always been good at running. From his nightmares. From his family. From his feelings. From his guilt. He runs from anything and everything he doesn't want to face. He's an expert at avoidance. He runs because he doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to feel. Those things will only bring him down. And just like he doesn't want to think about what he runs from, he doesn't want to think about _why_ he doesn't want to think about what he runs from. He doesn't _want_ to know what it means, doesn't care to know.

It's a circular path. All he does is run. Sometimes he feels like the _only_ thing he's good at is running.

He assures himself that he is not afraid. Far from it. He is proud, brave, a Gryffindor. He doesn't back down from a fight. He holds his ideals aloft as he charges into battle with little regard for his own safety (and sanity).

(But deep down he knows there are other forms of cowardice, and his is not outward but inward.)

He's spent all his life running, but he's never felt anything like this.

He clutches the throttle, flattens himself against the machine. He takes a sharp curve and his body leans into it along with the bike, pushing it to its limits.

He's never felt so alive.

He has always dreamed of buying one. He's always wanted a companion to run with him. Something that would just go and not ask questions.

He's so close to that dream. He doesn't want it to end. He loves everything about it, from the cold, crisp wind stinging his face to the loud, roaring purr of the engine.

He takes another turn - a left one - and he can see his destination. The end of his run. (Or maybe the beginning?)

As much as he wants to keep speeding along and never look back, he starts to slow down. He comes to a stop and cuts the engine.

He releases a heavy sigh as he lifts his goggles from his eyes. It pains him to part with his new found love, his new partner in crime. He swings his leg over the leather seat and dismounts.

A gloved hand roves across the smooth, metal handlebars. One last touch.

He walks over to a muggle man in a cheap checkered sport coat, his boots thumping on the pavement.

The man turns around, spots him, and a relieved expression spreads across his face only to be replaced an instant later by an impossibly large, impossibly fake grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ah, you're back. I was starting to wonder if you'd left for good," the salesman says.

The salesman eyes him up and down, taking in his heavy boots, long hair, and worn leather jacket. To the salesman in the checkered sport coat, he looks every bit like the kind of person who would go on a test run and never come back. The salesman is careful not to let any of this show in his expression, though.

"How'd it go then? You were gone a long time. Did she run all right for you?" the salesman asks. He is worried that he won't make the sale, worried that Sirius is too young, too brash, too irresponsible to do anything more than a test run.

"It was amazing. She's perfect," Sirius says.

"Great. Excellent." The salesman rubs his hands together, pleased by this turn of events. "That one there is a bit simple, but she's a beauty. Have you ever owned a motorbike before?"

The salesman smiles again - it's still fake - and there is no curiosity in his voice when he asks the question. He's following a script.

Sirius doesn't cooperate. His answer is short. No frivolous details. He doesn't care for small talk.

"No, I haven't."

"Well, then, surely you'd like to try out a few of our other models before you make your big selection. We've got better brands, higher quality."

The salesman launches into a description of their entire motorbike inventory being sure to go into detail about the more expensive models. The salesman is still following the script. He's trying to be helpful, trying to be Sirius' friend. _Trying_, but not succeeding.

Sirius cuts him off.

"I want that one." He points to the (_stunningly, achingly beautiful_) bike he has just reluctantly abandoned. "I don't care about the others."

"Wha- Are you sure? You don't want to look at any of the others? That one is really one of our simplest models..." the salesman splutters. His (slight) hope for a large commission are decidedly dashed.

"I'll take that one."

And a couple of hours later, just before the sun begins to set, he leaves the muggle salesman in the checkered sport coat behind amongst a haze of exhaust fumes.

He races down the pavement, not looking back.

He never wants to look back again, and with his new motorbike, he doesn't have to. He's free. He has a new way to run.

He's like a shooting star, and nothing can catch him now.


End file.
